


Bend Me, Shape Me (Anyway You Want Me)

by sevensilvermagpies



Category: Bad Times at the El Royale (2018)
Genre: (heavy), Angst, Fingering, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of Prostitution, Older Man/Younger Man, Praise Kink (kinda), Smut, Spanking, but those last two only breifly, hints at found family bcause I couldn't help myself, if you hadn't guess by the ship tag, light religious kink, mentions of drug abuse, phew idk how to tag this, the man on the film (oc), yknow all the good stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:48:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22470544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevensilvermagpies/pseuds/sevensilvermagpies
Summary: The old Miles hadn’t pictured sly stares, or the allure of a sharp jaw just darkened with stubble, or the rough brush of fingers over a room key. Things that he now craved.And so when a man whose cologne stinks with the sour note of too much money, but whose face crinkles with delightful charm when he smiles, strolls up to the concierge desk and asks for the honeymoon suite with a voice which was honey sweet, it is all Miles can do try and look as innocent and defilable as possible.
Relationships: miles miller/Daniel flynn, miles miller/other male characters
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Bend Me, Shape Me (Anyway You Want Me)

_Before_

Mondays were generally for cleaning.

Most of the guests were still comatose in their beds after the weekend’s extended celebrations, and those rare few who had real jobs had quietly departed by the first rays of morning light. Only the door to Nevada Room 8 was left unlocked and waiting, tucked at the end of the block furthest from the reception area.

Every few weeks a sweet young lady came to use it, and Miles had always waived her deposit. She’d turned up near three months after he had first slipped on the uniform of the El Royale, had been kind to him when few had even bothered to spare him a glance. He’d never been asked to film her, but then her clients were not those who wined and dined their ladies beforehand or tucked crisp Benjamins into Miles’ pockets for his silence. She took care of the chauffeurs rather than the chauffeured, not that it mattered to Miles.

After the first few weeks, she’d invited him for a nightcap when they had both closed up their business for the night, nothing sordid and nothing too strenuous. Nothing management would gawk at. Just a quick drink and a fleeting moment of genuine intimacy that they both desperately craved. Just a quick hit of something mellow to take the edge of the stressful day. Just a bit of fun. Wrap their soft bodies around each other and lie together.

It was funny, they’d never exchanged names or what had brought them to such an otherworldly place as the El Royale. But she had known him better than anyone, in the end, and when the pickings became less and less fruitful after the election, their parting was a reluctant one.

Not that she was his only. Oh, the Miles who lived in his stale memories had dreamed of a sweet marriage. Of course he had. Pictured himself and his bride at the altar, hand in hand, swearing to be true and love forever. In the tiny church he’d been baptised and confirmed in. His mother would cry, he was sure of it, and there would be sweet cake and pie.

The old Miles hadn’t pictured sly stares, or the allure of a sharp jaw just darkened with stubble, or the rough brush of fingers over a room key. Things that he now craved. These men, they were politicians, actors, recognised nationwide. “It’s that damn babyface of yours” one had breathed in his ear, pressing them up against the two-way mirror. Miles didn’t care what it was. Didn’t care if they tipped him generously before or after. The secret thrill of it. The bitter taste of it in his mouth. All he cared about was that he knelt and was given the Eucharist he craved on cold tile and rough carpet, in all the hidden corners of the motel.

_“Did you keep any of it? Miles!” Flynn roared. He glared at Miles, hand grasping tightly at his arm._

_When Miles just gaped at his sudden fury like a fish, Flynn forced him back towards the wall. It was enough to knock Miles back into his own head, as he stammered out, “Management wanted him… They really wanted him…” He blinked hard, reaching up to pull Flynn’s hand from his shoulder._

_“But he was kind to me.”_

And so when a man whose cologne stinks with the sour note of too much money, but whose face crinkles with delightful charm when he smiles, strolls up to the concierge desk and asks for the honeymoon suite with a voice which was honey sweet, it is all Miles can do try and look as innocent and defilable as possible.

As if his gentle voice wasn’t enough to stun Miles, his quiet laughter when Miles fumbles with the pen and then the man’s immaculate luggage makes him flush ever darker. The handle slips from his clammy grip and he winces hard in anticipation of the sharp reprimand he knew was coming. 

Instead soft fingers slide nimbly over his own and lighten his load by a briefcase and a suspiciously large hatbox. Miles swallows hard, imagining those hands at work elsewhere, and has to walk with the suitcases carefully positioned for the rest of the short distance to the gentleman’s room.

_“Nobody's ever kind to me...” The hand grasping at his collar seems to slack slightly, and if Miles could bring himself to look Flynn in the eye, he would see sadness chase the anger from the other man’s face._

_“So I told them there wasn't no woman in his room.”_

Management had supplied ample temptations, lined them up at the bar like paintings in an auction house. They were tall and lean and all stunningly beautiful, bedecked in taffeta and satin and richest velvet, accessorized with glittering smiles and sparkling champagne. 

But when the gentleman had waltzed up to the bar in obscenely tailored pants, and a knit sweater so alien in comparison to the finery of his surroundings, Miles had known that he would get his hands around those broad shoulders, no matter how much liquor courage needed to be poured down the others throat.

He orders his drink with a dismissive flick of his wrist. A tinkling laugh tumbles from the lips of the woman next to him, and he turns his attention on her, tilting his head back. A flash of pearly teeth, and the soft snort that follows his smile stalls Miles’ hand in reaching for the ice, too caught in the sight before him. A sharp cough from a patron down the bar starts him off again, pointing his flaming face to the floor.

Once Miles is sure his unsightly blush is under control looks up and holds out the tumbler full of amber liquid. The man’s eyes seem to be caught on his face, and Miles prays internally that it’s still not painted red with embarrassment.

"One Old Fashioned for you Sir?" The man starts slightly and clears his throat, "Yes, yes thank you.”

There’s another beat before his hand comes up to wrap around the glass, and Miles’ own fingers, trapping him in the man’s confident grip. “I don’t suppose its virgin is it?" the man winks at him. He swallows dryly, "it could be, if that’s what you like... Sir" and risks a returning wink.

The clamour of the bar separates them, but Miles keeps his eyes on those trousers, and notices the man slip out the front door of the foyer a few hours later. It’s well past midnight when he’s drawn the last cloth over the last roulette table and abandoned the stragglers at the bar to their own devices, but Miles is still feeling bold.

He’s feeling so bold he doesn’t even check that the man is still awake let alone, well, alone. Afterwards, stumbling sore but content back to his quarters, he’ll kick himself for not heading back and stopping the tape from recording. Instead Miles picks up a bottle of the most expensive champagne he can find and heads across the border towards California.

The man steals the words “room service” straight off his lips as he is dragged roughly by his lapels through the door. In a flash Miles is pressed between hard wood and the desk, shuddering in the cool night air as the man rips his shirt open. He can hear a button skitter across the desktop and swears internally at having to fix his shirt before the wet, hot mouth on his throat sends his mind spinning. He reaches down to pull shirt from the man’s trousers, fingers working from muscle memory as he focused his concentration on the underside of the man’s jaw, just rough with shadow.

With a groan, the man leant back out of the embrace to fumble in the desk drawer for Vaseline. The separation lasted for a split second before Miles gripped the man’s waist with his legs and yanked them tight together, sticking his lip out in the faux-innocent pout that usually got it bitten. “Such a needy little thing aren’t you?” the man laughed lowly, sinking his teeth into Miles’ lip, and then his jaw, “Mm impatient too.”

Huffing out a laugh Miles finally, _finally_ , pushes the man’s pristine shirt off his shoulders, revealing more tempting skin. “I knows what I want,” he smooths his hands across the man’s shoulders and down his arms knocking the jar from the others grasp, guiding their joined hands to the still closed fastening of Miles’ own trousers. The man grins against his shoulder and deftly underdoes the buttons, pressing his knuckles back against Miles’ dick in a way that makes it throb in anticipation.

Suddenly Miles’ is yanked off the table, stumbling to his feet as his trousers pool at his ankles. The man steps back, leaving miles feeling strangely vulnerable, and sprawls in the desk chair. His eyes rove over Miles expectantly, drinking him in. “Well?” the one-word drips with authority, sending chills zinging down Miles’ spine. He rushes to kick his shoes off so he can abandon the last shreds of clothing that cling to him.

Pride bolsters him as the man’s gaze drags over him hungrily. Tossing the jar into the waiting lap, he leans back to let the man’s eyes drink their fill. The pause that follows grows until Miles twists around, leaning his forearms on the table and thrusting his ass pointedly towards the man. “Be my guest.”

The silence grows even thicker, till the flush that spreads across Miles’ shoulders turns from desire to embarrassment. He flicks a quick look over his shoulder, “you can touch it you kno-ooh…”

The gel is cold, and it makes Miles shiver unpleasantly as the man begins to explore. Slick fingers circle inquisitively before pressing forward. All Miles can do is pant lightly, tingling warmth spreading slowly as slender fingers twist and press ever deeper. A second worms it way inside, as the man turns the attention of his mouth back to Miles skin, dragging across the constellation of freckles that speckle his shoulders. 

A third finger spreads Miles wider still, before he’s left empty and wanting. The noise of confusion barely escapes his lips before he is forcefully spun around and pulled down onto the man’s lap. Together they take a gulping breath, faces brushing close to each other dangerously tenderly, before Miles’ hand snakes down.

He pumps the man’s length a few times before wriggling into position and sinking down sinfully slowly. Beneath him, the man starts to circle his hips slowly, cloth of his trousers roughly pressing against Miles’ bare thighs only makes him feel more naked.

“I’m not going to break Sir,” he pants, digging his fingers into the meat of the man’s shoulders, “you can uh, go mmm harder.”

The room suddenly crackles with anticipation as the man grips his thighs and lifts him bodily off his dick, slamming him back down. A sharp whine is punched out of Miles, followed quickly by the sharp crack of palm on his ass dragging in a short gasp. His face is grabbed roughly, “the cheek is sweet boy, but you better not be under the assumption you’re in charge.”

It’s all Miles can do to nod and mumble “yes sir” before another sharp crack echoes around the room, and Miles clenches down.

_The flickering light casts ominous shadows over the imposing sight of Billy Lee. Just the sight of the tape in his hands causes Miles to flinch, then sob at the burning pain that engulfs his face. It burns. Oh, it burns and throbs in time with his pounding heart. He just wants to curl up in a ball and scream for god’s forgiveness but the rag in his mouth is suffocating._

_“Look who it is Boots.” And a fresh lightning bolt of fear strikes Miles’ spine._

_“It can’t be!”_

_“Oh it is boots,” There are two shuffling steps and Billy Lee is in front of him. “I can see why you kept it.” He taps the underside of Miles’ chin with the edge of the tape wheel, forcing him to look into Billy’s eyes. From beside him he hears Father Flynn mutter sourly, “he must’ve been very nice.”_

_Past-Miles, perhaps from barely an hour before, would’ve squeezed his eyes shut as if that could block out the sound of Billy’s laughter from his ears and hung his head in shame. But something about the inevitably of the situation, or the fact that out of all his many sins, this was the one for which he didn’t care to atone, made him steel himself. His defiant glare bore into Billy until his laughter died in his throat._

_After_

Time passes in flashes. Cold tile, cold porcelain, cold sweat. Miles can’t stop shaking, vibrating with adrenaline and fear. Pleading for forgiveness. The desperate need for another hit squeezing in his gut.

At some point they had moved him to the bed, when he had thrown up everything inside him and was reduced to a moaning, shivering mess. Slowly, slowly, Miles pries his eyes open to gaze at the worried face of Father Flynn staring blankly in his direction. He reaches out blindly, weakly grasping at the Father’s wrist.

“Please”

Jerked out of thought, Flynn’s eyes do not want to rest on Miles’ face, flitting around the room for want of somewhere to land.

“Father… Please….”

After what seemed like an age, he took a deep breath in and smiled, leaning towards Miles. “Let me help you son”

“Father….” He sobs, unable to truly breathe. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. Father I have killed, so many people. And… and I drank, and I gambled, and I put fire in my veins. I have done so much worse than you know!”

"You shall be cleansed by the Lord’s grace Miles; He is all powerful, all knowing, all loving. Do you repent? Do you ask God for His forgiveness."

"I have polluted my body is so many ways Father. Can I really be forgiven?" 

Father Flynn almost seemed to laugh, grinning at Miles like he was about to let him into a joyous secret. "God made you in His image did he not. Made you to be like His very self. the Lord knows who you are Miles, and He loves you all the same." 

And suddenly he can breathe freely again.

When Miles next wakes he is himself again, no longer a ghost in young man’s body.

It feels nice, to stretch out sore muscles in the shower, the grime of the past running off him in the slew of water. Dressing in the new slacks and shirt that Miss Sweet, “you call me Darlene Miles”, gives him feels even better. The invigorating promise of a fresh start lasts even through careful inspection of his still healing face in the bathroom mirror. The dips and shallows of the scars are pink and raw, skin slowly knitting itself back together. He huffs out a laugh to himself; looks like finding a companion for the night is going to be a sight harder from here on out.

The question of whether they would travel on together was never asked, not in so many words. But Miles finds his answer somewhere in-between Darlene going out to find a gig and come back with coffees for everyone, and Flynn swiping chocolate from gas stations for them to snack on like they were kids again. He stops thinking in the singular and starts dreaming of the future in threes.

So when Miles wakes up alone for the first time since the three of them had burnt their bridges, he doesn’t panic that he’s been left behind. The sight of the unfamiliar motel room is becoming strangely familiar, and he’s glad of his solitariness when the growing warmth in his groin continues its incessant throbbing. The deliciously fuzzy feeling snakes its way down his spine as he stretches on the bed. Sitting up slips the covers off him almost completely, and the cool morning air sends a violent shiver through his body.

He barely remembers checking in here, just drifting off against the cool car window and then his world tilting as he was lifted. Didn’t that send something shooting down his spine. The rough feel of the carpet beneath his feet as he stands tells him someone had divested him of his shoes and, oh. And his trousers.

Still groggy from sleep he stumbles forward to check the bathroom is empty too, sliding his hand down unthinkingly, to teasingly brush across his briefs. Spinning back around to the bed, the pretty green of the travel record player on the desk catches his eye. Before he even realises his feet drift him across the room to stroke a careful thumb across the lock and pop it open. It had been Darlene’s pride possession since she’d picked it up with the last of Father Flynn’s loot, and it felt almost sacrilegious to touch it without her permission. But he’s already picking up a record from the small stack and slipping it from its sleeve, and letting the soft guitar fill the room.

The rough, gentle voice from the speaker sounds how the scrape of stubble against his face feels, and sends him stumbling back, pulling off the last pieces of yesterday’s clothing until he can fall back on the bed. Twisting his tongue around his own fingers feels alien, but he lavishes them anyway, biting lightly, as if teasing. His nipples are hard already, in the winter’s morning and a vicious twist sends lighting down his spine, and a moan through his bitten lips. One hand continues to stroke himself leisurely, the other exploring, giving his balls a cursory squeeze that makes him gasp, before pressing further.

The wet cold of his fingertips isn’t pleasant, but the shivers that it sends across his pelvis very much are. Miles winces at the first press, the initial stretch ever uncomfortable, but he’d never been one to seek comfort. Quite the opposite. Before he’d even become used to the feeling of one finger, he’d nudge the second up beside it, then a third, chasing the heavy feeling of being too full. The spit had helped some, but the friction still made him whimper. His world spiralled down to a pinprick of sensation, pressure thrumming through him until-

“Y’know son,”

Miles jerked back, slamming solidly into the headboard with a resounding thump. Flynn sauntered further into the room, seemingly unperturbed, “I think you forgot to lock the door.”

His body was still pulled tight with anticipation, but Miles could only begin to stammer as Flynn moved closer, unable to tear his eyes away. His babbling apologies tapered off when Flynn came to a halt in front of him, one hand drawing up from where it had been carelessly stuffed into his pocket. He gently brushed over Miles’ hair, barely touching the spot where he’d hit the headboard, before pressing down around the base of his neck.

“Why, anyone could walk right in and see you like this.”

Sparks seemed to follow the drag of fingertips across his throat, smoothing upwards until they gripped his chin. Flynn’s thumb brushed over his lips and Miles let his mouth drop open as if in surprise. Flynn seemed to blossom into a smile at the gesture, before his face twisted sharply into a smirk, snatching his hand back, leaving Miles swaying into the space between them. It was enough to finally snap him out of the embarrassed trance he’d fallen into.

Miles snapped his mouth shut and tore his eyes away from the Father- from Flynn.

Not a priest.

Not that he looked like a priest anymore, with his sharp white jacket, and his shirt collar open and oh so tempting. Flynn catches Miles staring entranced at the hollow of his throat and in a smooth move shrugs his jacket from his shoulders, tossing it over the end of the bed. He reaches for the first of his shirt buttons and pauses. His eyes seem to drag across Miles’ face as if he can peer into his very thoughts, before taking Miles’ hand in his own and guiding it up to the collar of his shirt. Their fingers linger intertwined for a second before Flynn withdraws. Blinking up at him, still unsure, Miles’ trembling hand clasps the crisp fabric in his hand, shakily twisting button through hole. The Father raises an eyebrow, but Miles just smirks up at him, as the record hisses and scratches to a stop. The silence only seems to press them ever closer.

They both seem frozen in place, hesitant and unsure of where they are going. Miles sways forwards as if pulled by some imperceptible force and slides off the edge of his bed onto his knees. Nervous hands reach up to Flynn’s belt buckle, sliding the belt slowly through the ring. Each fly button seems to take an age as Miles’ deft fingers pop it free of its restraint, getting more confident as he feels Flynn thicken and harden under his careful hands. A coy glance up through his eyelashes shows Flynn looming over him, imposing as a church statue, only the expression of awe on his face betraying his humanity. The desire pooling in those eyes stokes Miles’ pride, and he smirks as he leans closer.

He noses at Flynn through his pants, nudging up against it, smoothing his unscarred cheek over the bulge inches from his mouth. He desperately wants to pull it out and into his mouth but holds himself back; pressing hot, wet, open mouthed kisses through the fabric. Breathing in the scent of the older man he presses ever closer, fingers clasping at his thighs.

Flynn seems to huff an amused breath as his kisses get ever desperate, twisting his fingers in Miles curls and yanking his head back. “Let me help you son” Flynn says as pushes the last fabric barrier away, revealing himself fully. Miles trembles as he tries to lean forwards and take it in his mouth but the older man’s tight grip on his hair holds him still.

“Say please.”

Miles blinks up, frowning slightly at the command. Flynn shakes his head a little, the pinprick pain on his scalp just shoots straight down to Miles’ cock, aching and ignored in his lap. “Please… Father – I’ve been good, _please_ ” Flynn just smirks down at him, and releases the grip on his hair, sliding his hand down to cradle Miles’ head instead and bring it closer to his waiting cock.

Miles wraps one hand around the bottom of his shaft, as his takes the head into his mouth, warm and wet and willing. He swirls his tongue around, pulling deep groans from the man above him, before swallowing more and more into his mouth, pressing his nose down as if he was trying to become one with Flynn. Tears spring to his eyes as he chokes a little, cock heavy on his tongue. “You know, you look real pretty when you cry.” He hears Flynn murmur, swiping his tears away. The rough press of the thumb against his newly healed face makes him flinch, then gag, pulling quickly off Flynn’s cock.

He recovers from the shock, but when he looks up the desire on Flynn’s face has been overwritten with concern, pulling his smirk into a worried frown. Miles quickly swipes the spit from his chin, smiling apologetically, but when he reaches out again Flynn catches his hands.

“I’m fine” he promises, but the other man doesn’t look convinced, instead pulling him to his feet. Suddenly being at eye level shakes Miles a little, Flynn looking less strong and imposing now they’re the same height, but he just breaks his hands from Flynn’s grip and cradles his face. The scratch of beard under his fingers sends a shiver through him and oh, how he’d missed this. He presses Flynn’s cheek against his own, and whispers hoarsely in his ear, “take care with the pretty face, it’s what makes me my money.”

This seems to finally shake Flynn out of his worry as he pulls Miles back to press a kiss to his lips finally, _finally_ , their mouths slide together, hot and desperate. They lose themselves in the heat and press of lips and teeth, until Flynn pulls away reluctantly, spinning them around and dropping heavily onto the mattress, pulling Miles roughly after him and into his lap. As soon as Miles is spread across his thighs their mouths are rushed together again.

Miles jerks in his lap, pressing his aching erection against the other’s, the drag of bare skin on fabric making him suddenly hyperaware of his nakedness. His mind wanders to what they must look like to someone else, him without a scrap on desperately writhing in the lap of the fully clothed Father Flynn. The thought drags another moan out of him, his dick almost screaming for relief. As if Flynn can read his thoughts, he takes them both into his hand pumping rapidly, almost in time with Miles’ racing heart. His forehead drops to the other man’s shoulder, as he grips Flynn’s shirt helplessly, twisting the fabric around his fingers. A litany of praise pours out of the other man’s mouth and into his ear. His hand twists over their cocks, winding Miles ever tighter and tighter until suddenly he squeezes viciously and Miles overflows, jerking and crying out. One last twist to their still joined cocks, and Miles bites down on Flynn’s shoulder as he spasms with aftershocks, the other man shuddering with release beneath him.

A minute passes in what seems like an age, filled with heavy breaths and gentle closed mouth kisses, till Flynn tips Miles off his lap and onto the bed. He flops back next to him with a satisfied smirk, as Miles throws an arm loosely over his chest. Nestling his face deep into the crook of Flynn’s neck, he huffs a tired laugh, “ain’t you glad you’re not actually a priest?”

And they both start to laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> This wouldnt've existed without Dubhlainn, who conversed with me at length about this film and Miles' character, and who then very patiently beta-ed this when I threw it at them semi formed. Thank you.  
> Please leave kudos & comments becuase I crave validation (like all creators). This was a really fun challenge to write as someone who has ventured rarely into saucy material, and who hasnt written in a while.


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